


In Perpetuity

by bbcsherlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, weird timelines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:39:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/pseuds/bbcsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not even Sherlock Holmes can prevent the inevitability of death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Perpetuity

I walk into the building. Slowly and with trepidation. My eyes scan the doorframe, the walls, the staircase, and I know that something is incorrect. Out of place. My feet snap into action as a hear a sound, familiar and sending sharp waves of anxiety in my chest. They stumble up the seventeen steps as if we are sailing, as if I am intoxicated, as if I am blind. 

The door swings before my vision, and with no rationale, with no logic or calmness my fingers scrabble against the wood before gaining a hold and pushing into our flat. The sound I had heard was unmistakable, final, searing, as was this image before me. He lay unnaturally with his back to me, one arm twisted behind him (I can see that his ulna has snapped, but it is of no consequence) and I find that I can’t breathe, I can’t move I can’t

I can’t think.

I stumble on the carpet but right myself easily against the sofa, my heart beating out a mantra that screams my denial and anger and the possibility of burning, burning loss. If I could scream I would be yelling, alerting the whole of London to what ugly monstrosity has occurred to someone so gentle; my hands would be tearing at my own head as if to rip my brain from my skull, useless because of this; my knees would shudder weakly in their sockets before plummeting to the floor where I would stay for so long that they would grow roots and flowers and an entire ecosystem. If only I could bring more life to him.

The world is gone, vanished in one moment and narrowed to the tarnished smell of blood that I used to relish in, his broken form and the pieces of a deduction that I have not yet pieced together. I find myself at his side without having moved, brushing the hair back from his face again and again, my frantic movements against his forehead doing nothing to rouse him. He is still breathing, but the gasps are shallow and irregular and I can’t find a strong enough heartbeat in his neck. My hands go limp against his burning skin.

Nothing can compare to the agony in my chest, shifting under my ribcage with every breath and slowly, slowly drowning me. There is no room for anger or thoughts towards the culprit of this. There is no room for fear at this broken form, as I know that this will be irreparable. All I contain is a circuitous and paradoxical pit of complete lack of light and emptiness; I know it contains a churning, writhing mass of indescribable emotions that have not yet been released, so I ensure I suffocate them until they lie still again. 

My eyes sting as if from prolonged exposure to this scene, and as I turn I wonder if it was only my ears that detected the gunshot. I wonder if there is an exit wound or if the bullet is embedded in layers of bone marrow and tissue. I wonder if I could stop the bleeding and if I could transfuse my blood into his veins. I would be nice to have some of my essence rushing to his every capillary, I think. I do not need to wonder if the bullet pierced his heart because his body would already be cold and I wouldn’t still be sharing his air, and I do not need to wonder if he will still be breathing in five minutes because there is too much blood.

I do not think about deductions, experiments or criminals. I do not think about tea, the violin or the television. In fact I wonder, for a moment, whether I have died in place of him because it is me who no longer has any grasp of cognitive or logical thought, and it is me who can no longer breathe.

Instead, I think that John will be angry because the blood has ruined the carpet. Instead, I think about how he will try to feed me tonight and I will try to refuse because I will be trying to think about-- about

His ulna still looks broken and there is shattered glass littered almost artfully across the floor (from the pattern and the edges I know the impact was on the exterior) and I wonder if it is cutting into his back.


End file.
